Dancing Raindrops
by Decadanseuse
Summary: Elena Gilbert has just lost her parents - she sits by her window, watching the raindrops dance by. A memory comes to her through the glass, a vision of happiness, of warmth, of her mother's embrace - and she begins to heal. Drabble.


**First of all, Vampire Diaries obviously does not belong to me. Furthermore, this is, quite honestly, the first thing I've ever published in fandom - so do tell me what you think and how I can improve. It's just a quick sketch, written incredibly quickly, so forgive (and indeed, point out) any inconsistencies/mistakes/etc.**

**Dancing Raindrops**

And so she sits, grey and gaunt, withering away – staring into the window, the rain dancing down the glass. She hasn't had a single thought for days, enveloped in her father's favourite sweatshirt – her dead father's favourite.

Oh, they sometimes stop and wrench her door open, force her to stare blankly at them as opposed to the window, and she allows it. She's too tired to resist when they force soup into her mouth, too tired when Jenna has had enough – she's had enough many times – and swings violently between frustration and pity.

"Are you okay?" They drone needlessly, as if one word from her could change everything.

No, she remains focused on the glass – the rain hasn't stopped since that night, the night – no, she can't think of it now. She can't think at all.

Her reflection comes to her in the window pane, through the torrents of water – all grey, lifeless, and she sees her own eyes, deprived of life, haunted – suddenly, a spark – a spark of colour, and shadows dance across the hollows of her cheekbones, the contours of her reflected face.

She leans closer, intrigued, and she's looking into her own room from the other side, looking through the rain into a bright, joyous place.

A little girl is sleeping soundly, wrapped tightly in her favourite duvet. Her mouth is slightly open, she breathes heavily – for the first time since, Elena's lip quivers – an almost smile, a ghost of a smile.

Footsteps sound on the staircase, and a quiet knock alerts the little girl to someone's presence – she wakes quickly, throwing the duvet off, and jumping straight into her bunny-shaped slippers. The door opens, and Elena – the Elena watching in the rain-soaked (tear-soaked?) outside – gasps. Her mother, younger – shiny, happy, glowing – wraps her arms around the little girl.

"Happy birthday, Elena!" She whispers into her daughter's hair, as she struggles to get out – to run for the presents, for the cakes, and the sweets, and the many more hugs and kisses to follow. But her mother holds her still, a teasing look upon her smiling face. "Hold still, let your mother look at her big girl." Restless, little-Elena pauses in her movements, but only for a moment.

"I have a surprise for you." Miranda announces, holding out her hand. Little-Elena grasps it firmly, skipping down the stairs.

The pleasant, wafting smell of something sweet – something Elena hasn't smelled in far too long – assaults her senses. She recognises it immediately, and more unbidden tears spring to her eyes. Oh, she'd never have it again – she couldn't – it was her mother's, her mother's recipe which made it taste so sweet. Nothing her efforts would achieve could possibly suffice – it'd be too bittersweet. Elena bites her tongue.

She's downstairs now, inside, watching as her family gathers around the table, all prepared with her favourite treats – and in the centre, the very centre, stands her favourite – apple _sharlotka._She could never remember how she came across the recipe – perhaps a friend with Russian roots, or a teacher inclined to culinary experimentation, but she begged and begged her mother to make it.

And make it she did – for her fifth birthday, and she could still remember that perfect taste. Not too sweet, slightly dry, and the sour taste of apples – Elena loved it. She was never a fan of unnatural icing, as so many of her friends seemed to prefer, and she hated desserts which were _too_sweet, and she loved her mother's new signature dish, borrowed from Slavic Europe.

The memory ends as suddenly as it had come – and what of resolutions? There could be no resolution, there could never be – a death, two deaths, they could never be resolved – never forgotten, never without longing for a different timeline, a lifetime with her parents by her side.

But, as she sits, still facing the raindrops on her window, the unexpected sunlight illuminating them into shards of rainbow – she fights her tiredness, she fights everything keeping her in her humbled, pitiful position – she stands up. The world has not broken her. She makes her way downstairs.

Her first memory since that night, her first pleasant recollection of her family – without the screams, the fear, the rain, the water – and with the sunlight comes clarity, a future. The rain has burdened her, but the sunlight gives her hope, and quietly, quietly, she reaches for the tear-soaked family album on the coffee table, poured over by Jeremy and Jenna, but not yet touched by her.

She holds it close, then breathes out a deep sigh – _sharlotka_in the centre of the table, a grinning little girl, cheerfully consuming every last bite. The little girl laughs with happiness, and Elena allows herself a small smile in memory.

**Thank you for reading!**


End file.
